Risky Business, page 4
Carson waves at the bartender. “Can you get the lady a margarita instead, please?”
The bartender looks at me for approval and I smile. “Teremana margarita with double lime?” He nods and slips down the bar to make my new drink, leaving me and Carson alone once more. “I can definitely use one of those after the day I had.”
I smile brightly, making sure Carson knows I’m kidding. Thankfully, he plays along. “Rough one?” he asks. “New client’s an asshole?”
“I’ve had worse. But some clients just don’t like to admit they need help.”
Carson runs his finger along the rim of his glass, looking thoughtful but staying silent.
I press on. “It’s hard. I get that. But if I needed heart surgery, I’d go to a cardiologist. If I needed my car worked on, I’d consult a mechanic. So when you need PR work, you get a PR person.”
The metaphor is one I’ve used before with a decent amount of success. Companies and clients aren’t always overjoyed to see me, especially when I come in and start bossing people around mid-crisis, but that’s my job.
“I should be able to fix this myself,” Carson mutters so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
It’s my first look at the real Carson Steen. The man with high expectations, not only of everyone around him but of himself. This whole clusterfuck, as he called it, is weighing on him heavily, despite his broad shoulders and bold confidence.
“You ever see a barber cut their own hair?” I ask. “I have. It’s a mess. Even the best barber has to get a haircut from someone else. There’s no shame in getting outside help from a specialist. This is what I do, and I’m damn good at it. You can trust me, Carson.”
He turns to me, not only his eyes, but his entire body. He’s either going to tell me to fuck off or that he’s in. There’s no middle ground. I can sense it. I turn too, my knees going between his widespread ones as I look him directly in his eyes. “What’s it going to be?”
My breath pauses in my chest, awaiting his verdict. This assignment is a big deal for me, a big trust from Patrick, but more importantly, I find that I want to help Carson. He’s not this monster the media, and Abby Burks, especially, are making him out to be. He’s a dedicated worker who believes in his family business and thought he was doing what was best for people he considers to be part of the Steen Amusement family.
“I’m in.”
Two little words, but it’s a huge concession on his part. He’s giving me control and cooperation, two things I think he rarely offers anyone. Even in his tone, I can tell that this is a major, major effort on his part.
“Good,” I answer softly, even as inside I’m doing excited backflips. “I’m glad, because I can help you. I can help Americana Land. But I’m not going to lie, this is going to be rough. I’m going to ask you a lot of personal questions, and I need your honesty. And I’m going to make suggestions you’re going to hate, disagree with, and want to veto. We can discuss them, and I can explain my reasonings, but you’re going to have to work with me.”
His eyes fall to his lap where his hands rest on his thighs, and my gaze follows. The tan skin of his fingers is inches away from the paler expanse of my thigh. Beneath my skirt, my core clenches, but I fight the urge to spread my knees to give him access.
“What do you want?” he asks, his voice husky.
Well, isn’t that a loaded question? Be professional, Jayme. You’re making progress here.
“I want people to understand who you are and that what happened was a big mix-up, but you acted with the best of intentions. Moreover, I want people to think fun, family outing when they hear the words Americana Land. Your brand and Americana Land’s brand are what I want.”
His sigh is heavy with the weight of the tarnished crown he wears. “Okay, where do we start?”
Holy shit! I did it!
Not that I doubted my skills, exactly, but I was worried Carson wouldn’t be able to get out of his own way. It’s still a dangerous road, though, so I don’t want to go at him too hard. Instead, I start with an easy one.
“Did you really ride a jet ski off a ramp?” I whisper, a ‘surely not’ smirk on my lips.
He laughs, breaking the serious mood between us. There’s a sparkle in his eyes as he argues, “There was a shark!” I give him a dubious look and he shrugs. “Fine, it was a mechanical shark, but it was a race for charity. They were raising funds for the Ocean Life Foundation, and the ramp was right there. I mean, I kinda had to. Everyone loved it.”
I laugh too, having seen the pictures and video on You Tube. “It was pretty awesome,” I admit. “But we need to keep the crazy stunts to a minimum for a bit.”
“Can I still ride my motorcycle?” he asks hopefully, his puppy dog eyes begging for permission.
I roll my eyes. “Fine, but you have to stay under the speed limit and wear a helmet.”
He holds his hand out. “Done.”
I shake his hand, and sparks fly between us. His thumb traces over my knuckles gently, and even that small touch sends fire through my veins. I don’t want to let go, but after a moment, though I’m not sure whether it’s me or him, our hands slowly separate. I instantly feel the loss of his heat.
“What else? It sounds like you want me to turn into a monk. No-fun Carson,” he suggests.
“No. You can have fun, but we need to work on the types of fun you have and the visibility of them while we do some damage control.”
“Types. Of. Fun?” he repeats. “Do you know how boring that sounds? I feel like you’re going to suggest I take up knitting or collecting Sci-Fi action figures.”
“Hey!” I protest, smacking his shoulder. “I’m a Sci-Fi nerd. My Expanse knowledge is only secondary to my Dr. Who trivia.”
His brows screw together. “Am I supposed to know what those are?”
I gape. “Seriously?”
His laugh is loud and bright as he points a finger at me. “Gotcha!”
I shake my head, grinning at his delight. “Can’t blame me for believing you really didn’t know. You don’t exactly strike me as the Star Trek versus Star Wars opinion type.”
“Trek all the way. Nobody beats Picard.”
“Them’s fighting words,” I drawl, holding up my fists like I’m ready to throw down. “Put ‘em up, put ‘em up.”
Carson holds his hands out wide, warning loudly, “Uh-oh, we got a badass over here.”
And somehow, we end up talking the evening away. From his love of all things sport and my competitive swimming pseudo-career as a teen, to our polite but spirited disagreements on what sort of food best chases away the blues, to our mutual desire to be the best, always needing to prove ourselves.
With each shift in the conversation, I feel like he and I connect on another deeper level. Drinks become dinner at the bar, the two of us talking over delicious meals we order from the kitchen. Eventually, chastise him good-naturedly . “You know, Carson, you really could have shown me all this from the start.”
“And miss seeing you go all Alpha-female on me?” Carson retorts with a grin. “Please. Your calling me an asshole was almost worth all the other trouble.”
I laugh at what he obviously means to be a high compliment . “I’ll admit, I do have a temper sometimes.”
“That we seem to have in common,” Carson says, taking the last bite of his burger. He groans and pats his stomach. “Tell me again why I got two free refills on the waffle fries before even touching my burger? Ugh, you’re going to have to roll me out of here.”
I hold my hand out toward my plate of salmon and asparagus, a decidedly lighter choice that wasn’t half bad given that Verdux is more bar than restaurant. “Every choice has a consequence. That’s the lesson of the day, I think.”
Carson’s answering grin is mischievous. “You’re right.”
Before I can worry what he means by that, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. For a split second, I think he’s dragging me toward the door.
Not that he’d have to drag you, girl.
But instead, he leads me to an empty area near one of the tables and pulls me into him. “Dance with me.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, though I’m not stopping him or moving back in any discernible way.
“Paying the consequences of my dinner choice,” he says as if it’s a completely reasonable thing for us to dance together after the day we had. “Need to burn that burger off.”
He’s a respectable distance from me, his hand light on my back and letting mine rest in his outstretched one. We’d be appropriate at a middle school dance with PE teacher chaperones keeping a close watch. But this feels intimate, especially as the song works its way into my body.
Rita Ora's smoky, sexy voice surrounds us, making conversation unneeded as we sway. He turns me in a circle, putting his back toward the door, which feels protective and lets me know that he has been listening to me, to my suggestions about being aware of his surroundings. No one is going to get a candid shot of Carson Steen dancing with an unnamed woman in a dimly lit bar tonight. There will be no headlines, no amplification of the image issue he’s already battling. It’s a small victory but one I’ll take gladly.
He doesn’t speak, at least not with words, but his body is doing plenty of communicating while we move as one. Before I know it, the air between us is charged and disappearing by the inch.
“Jayme,” he whispers, his breath hot on the shell of my ear. Unconsciously, I tilt my cheek toward him, but when I feel the slight scruff of his five o’clock shadow against my soft skin, it’s the wake-up call I need.
“Shit. Carson . . .” I step back and hear a small sound of disapproval deep in his throat. I want him to growl at me like that again . . . against my skin . . . or against my pussy.
No. I can’t do that. I can’t want that.
“I need to go,” I tell him quietly, sounding unsure even to my own ears.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” It’s not a question but a demand. Even with the chemistry between us tonight, he still wants my help. Or at least I hope that’s why he wants to see me again.
“Yes. We’ll get started on a plan for branding you and Americana Land. Carson Steen, nice guy. Has a good ring to it, don’t you think?” I smile gently, hoping he hears that I’m trying to get us back on track. Back to a professional level, because heaven and hell know that I’m feeling anything but professional right now.
His smirk and the heat in his blue eyes make filthy, bad promises. “Sure, I’m such a nice guy.”
He’s anything but. He’s dangerous—to my career, to my body, to my heart.
CHAPTER 5
CARSON
Tapping on the conference room table we commandeered for this morning’s meeting, I look at the screen of Jayme’s laptop, where she’s got the conclusion of her PR proposal campaign. “You’ve been busy,” I tell her.
She looks at me sharply, one brow arching high. “Why do you sound surprised?”
I shake my head, trying to backpedal. “Not surprised. I guess I was thinking that after last night, I went home and crashed . . . though I did have some sweet dreams. But this? I’ve seen whole teams put together much less in twice as much time. I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.”
My charm works its magic this time, and her pressed lips soften into a smile. “I did some of this before I went to Verdux last night,” she explains. “Some of it even before I met with you. What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
She blinks, forcing a doe-eyed Bambi look that doesn’t suit her in the slightest. “No, please lie to me.”
Licking my lips, I admit, “I like it. All of it. But can you walk me through it one more time?”
It’s not an easy confession for me to make. I like to be the best and am used to meeting the needs of Americana Land myself, either by deciding the team’s direction or approving ideas from my skilled team. Either way, the responsibility lies with me.
This situation is different, though. And maybe, I thought as I shaved in the shower this morning, maybe a set of eyes that aren’t as close to the situation could be useful. And Jayme’s ideas are solid, well researched, and innovative. Much like the woman.
“Sure,” she replies, clicking back to slide one. “We’ve addressed your image as Carson Steen, nice guy.”
I nod, knowing that was a hard-won discussion last night with considerations given on both our parts. The motorcycle concession on her part was counterbalanced with no betting on mine. I easily agreed to no public dates, no social media posting, and no appearances in the park while we repair my image.
“Good. So we need to move on to brand repair for Americana Land. The ultimate failure of the Abby Burks incident is in the bad press, so we need to combat that with fierce and focused positive press. But not local, prime time commercials and Facebook ads. Those demographics are already your loyal customers, right?” She waits for me to agree.
“Yes. Repeat customers are our largest win, with over sixty percent stating they’ll return for another visit in post-surveys. Age-wise, same goes for adults over the age of thirty-five. Some of those are families, but the large bulk are over fifty-five.” I have that information off the top of my head because it’s been one of my biggest accomplishments since taking over the marketing department.
“Exactly. And you worked for that. We need to focus on a younger audience, the ones who are creating a viral impact from the Abby Burks video. We need them to want to come to Americana Land, and honestly, right now . . . they don’t. Americana Land’s reputation isn’t fresh and fun. It’s not a destination for kids out on a weekend adventure or a vacation activity.”
“Ouch,” I deadpan. “You make it sound like this is a place for old fogey people.”
Jayme gives me a sorrowful look. “It is. But we can fix that perception. It’s all about image, Carson. Our aim is to reach the thirteen to twenty-five age brackets. The ones who follow social media, who skip commercials when they’re streaming but listen to influencers, who create trends and move on to another hot thing with the next breath. Those are our targets.”
Her words are fast, her cheeks pink, and her smile wide. Her excitement is infectious and gives me hope that she can do what she’s suggesting. I sincerely hope she can because it sounds like an amazing direction for Americana Land to move toward, Abby Burks incident or not. But reaching out to the social media generation to fix a social media gaffe is also risky as hell.
“You think this is doable? We’re not going to step into a bear trap we’re unprepared for?”
Jayme’s eyes light up. She knows she’s got me. Better yet, she’s got this.
“It’s completely doable. We can do it together.”
The words hang heavily, sounding like she’s talking about much more than a PR campaign. I lean forward, covering the inches between us, and let my eyes fall to her pink lips. Her smile melts as her lips part, letting out a tiny sigh.
Right as I’m about to taste her, she disappears. I open my eyes to find she’s pushed her chair back from the table, away from me. “Carson, I can’t. We can’t,” she whispers, looking as though the words pain her.
But I’m not one to give up easily. “Why not?”
She licks her lips, giving them a glossy sheen, and I follow the movement with my eyes, feeling hungry for her. “This is an important assignment for me and a make-or-break moment for you. I think we should stay professional.” Under her breath, so quiet I almost miss it, she adds, “Or at least try to be.”
“Professional?” I echo darkly.
“Yes,” she says, sounding less certain by the moment. It’s a small salve on my feelings.
I want her. She wants me. But she doesn’t want to want me. At least not right now.
I can wait for her, though. We can handle this PR nightmare and then explore these fireworks between us. I like danger and risk, but I can be calculated and tactical when the situation calls for it. And Jayme Rice is going to need every bit of strategy I possess.
I don’t let the promise of a kiss die in my eyes, but I sit back in my chair, giving her breathing room. “Okay, so what do we do?”
The question seems to throw her, and I secretly take a small delight in setting her off balance after the way she’s done me since first walking into Dad’s office. It’s a full three seconds of silence before she blinks and refocuses.
Pacing along the conference table, she explains her plan once more. “A multifaceted approach using social media. One, we need to create a hashtag storm with photos of Americana Land, the experience, the people, the rides, all of it. We can use professional photos and on-brand user candids, especially young adult visitors. People need to see the photos everywhere online, as YouTube ads, in tweets, and ‘Gram posts. Two, we need a fun activity that’s viral worthy, a daily ‘Find Freddy Freebird’, perhaps. Like a Where’s Waldo deal . . . something people can do at home, and when they visit, taking a picture with a Freddy Freebird mascot is a big deal. The ultimate find. And three, which is the most important one, we need to show not only acceptance of the social media generation, but celebration of it.”
Her pause is full of promise.
“How are we going to do that?” I’m already using ‘we’ for this project, knowing that Jayme has a brilliant idea in that gorgeous head of hers. It’s a bold change from my attitude only twenty-four hours ago where marketing was my baby and no one could touch it or tell me anything.
“An influencer extravaganza.” She swipes her hands through the air, looking vacantly into thin air. “This will be a branched initiative. First, we need to invite a few select influencers for sponsored trips. In exchange, they’ll post content on their feeds highlighting Americana Land. And best of all” —she claps her hands, excited as she finishes— “a summer concert series.”
I want to be over the moon with her idea. I really do. Especially given how happy she seems, but as she looks at me expectantly, what comes out of my mouth is, “We already do that every year.”
That’s the truth, and I’m honestly a little surprised that she doesn’t know that. Her research has been impeccable, maybe even too much so in some areas, so how did she miss that we do a multi-show series every summer? The headliners are usually bands from decades past trying to make a little cash by singing classics to the gray-haired set, but they’re always sold out.
